


sweet <3 (a love story in four candy parts)

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crushes, F/M, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, POV Alternating, Rescue, Romance, Sexual Content, Texting, Valentine's Day, alternatively titled ‘the run-on sentence fic’, in a romcom sense of the word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-26 14:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17747993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Sansa Stark’s wildly romantic heart might be disappointed — not to mention potentially scarred for life — in her disastrous Valentine’s date, until Jon Snow comes along to play the knight-in-shining-armor she’s always dreamed of.(work and chapter titles inspired by necco sweethearts)





	1. date nite

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: a little valentine’s gift for everyone! i’ll post a chapter each day until the 14th, when this fic will be concluded (there may be a bonus scene as well, but i won’t make you wait a whole other day for that if i decide to make it its own chapter rather than tack it onto the end of the final one).
> 
> three things: one, the baratheons are not related in this universe; two, i know i tagged joffrey and while he is an active presence in the first three scenes, i don’t let him *actually talk* much, bc this is the season of love and we all deserve better than that, which brings me to my third, final, and most important point: i dressed jon up like jake peralta bc THAT is the aesthetic we deserve and i hope you all enjoy it as much as i do, xoxo

Romantic as she once was — with lofty aspirations of love at first sight, which was more attainable than some dreamy knight-in-shining-armor, if only because knights are very impractical nowadays, so love at first sight would do in a pinch — Sansa Stark is starting to think that all those fairytales she’d grown up on are nothing more than chocolate factory propaganda. Because surely if Hershey’s used her own sordid love life as their advertising campaign, they’d never sell so much as a kiss again.

The trouble is, Sansa is also starting to think that this sordid love life of hers is the best it’s ever going to get, because Hershey’s are a pack of liars and _this_ — awkward blind dates and dinners-for-one while endlessly swiping on dating apps, hoping against hope that someone will appear to sweep you off your feet, but _ha!_ not _bloody_ likely — is the reality of the situation. Anyone who believed in notions such as “love at first sight” were suckers; and Sansa had proven to be the biggest, most vibrantly cherry one of them all.

She’s being insufferably macabre about the whole thing. Realism doesn’t suit her.

_Oh, well._

Sansa sighs and slips into a dress — a pretty, if a touch slinky, indigo thing that clings and twirls when she moves just the right way.

Though _the right way_  would likely mean heading out of the restaurant before her date could arrive, thereby saving herself another painful evening, Sansa doesn’t have that luxury. Joffrey’s rather too old-fashioned, and so he insists on picking her up. A younger Sansa might have swooned at such gallantry, but at twenty-five and with so many disappointments under her belt, she finds it suffocating and positively inconvenient. Her only option of an early escape is to fork over a week’s pay to the nearest taxi.

_That might be worth it, honestly…_

But she’s too polite to protest, not to mention how uncomfortable such a tiff would be when their families inevitably have another get-together. The Starks and Baratheons go way back. The only reason it had taken this long for their parents to orchestrate a potential romance between the two was because Joffrey had spent his adolescence at an elite boarding school in Essos.

“A juvenile detention centre, more like,” Arya had guessed. The boys had agreed — Robb with a curt nod, and Bran and Rickon with sniggers — but Sansa, as is her nature, had opted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

That didn’t last very long, as, after their first two dates, Sansa was inclined to agree with her sister. She’d only accepted a third date because it was Valentine’s Day, and Joffrey happened to text her halfway through a pity party and a bottle of wine the week before.

She’d been a little bit drunk and a lot lonely, and she’d said yes on a glimmer of hope that the third time might be the charm.

It takes less than an hour for her to be proven wrong. Sansa is disappointed but not surprised — and the disappointment isn’t even Joffrey’s dreadful personality, but rather in her own willingness to look past it for the sake of her ego.

She thinks now that perhaps being lonely is far preferable to this. And when Joffrey’s gaze stays glued to her low neckline, she knows it for a fact.

To make matters worse — because yes, apparently things can always get worse, or at least some degree of mortifying — they’re seated at a table almost directly beside one of her students.

Shireen is a sweet, precocious girl of twelve, and had been quite pleased to see her art teacher. Joffrey had merely snorted and continued on to their table when Sansa stopped to say hello, but no one else paid him any mind. Shireen introduced her foster father, Davos, and chattered away about her brothers, who of course were running late to dinner.

“They’re working, Shireen,” Davos had said with the air of a man who’d said the same half a dozen times by now, but any hint of impatience was dashed with his smile.

“They’re irresponsible.”

“They're police officers. Jon just made detective, need I remind you.”

Shireen had rolled her eyes and told Sansa, “He always takes their side.”

Davos chuckled. “If I left you to them, I’m afraid they’d spend half their lives with their tails between their legs, properly chastised.”

“Well, Jon’s certainly going to be sorry.” She’d looked meaningfully at Sansa then. “Maybe if he’d been here on time, he could’ve stolen you away from your date.”

Sansa had blushed and laughed and said such a thing would be terribly impolite of her. But having spent the last thirty minutes with her date, she thinks perhaps _terribly_ _impolite_ would still be too courteous for the likes of Joffrey.

He’s self-centered and dull and they’ve got nothing in common, because Sansa doesn’t like him half so much as he likes himself.

“You look nice,” he’s said a grand total of once in all of their acquaintance, and even then it’s as though he’s congratulating himself. Sansa doesn’t need anyone’s constant approval but for god’s sake, _she’s_ the one in a silk dress and ankle-aching heels, so it would be nice to be appreciated for all her hard work, rather than pretend that Joffrey’s smug once-over is a compliment.

She says thank you all the same, and hates herself for being so polite. Perhaps if she showed off a little more of her spirit, or her occasionally cocksure attitude, then maybe he’d stop asking her out. And _then_ she wouldn't have to invent some clever way to dump him without him realizing he’s been insulted.

 _Sigh._ If she thought romance was a lofty aspiration, Sansa reckons this one is the ultimate in pipe dreams.

Joffrey’s going on and on about something or other, Sansa doesn’t know and his tone is far too pompous for her to think it a good idea to tune in. She catches the word “hunting” and takes a demure but still bracing sip of sweet white wine. She abhors hunting when done for sport, which she knows Joffrey’s father loves because she’s seen that mounted deer’s head in the Baratheons’ dining room more times than she could count. It makes her lose her appetite.

Now, she picks at her salad, as disinterested in the meal as she is in her date. It’s an unkind thought, but Sansa doesn’t think Joffrey would care any which way. He just wants someone else there to listen to the sound of his voice. Really, she could be anyone else and it wouldn’t make a difference.

She wishes she were anyone else. Or that she were here with someone else. Or maybe even that she’d declined a third date, and spent tonight with another bottle of wine instead.

Well. Too late for that now, she supposes. At least she has a glass to tide her over.

“Something wrong with the food?” Joffrey asks.

In her shock that he’d actually noticed something about her other than the deep vee of her dress, Sansa’s eyebrows go up. “Sorry?”

“You’ve hardly touched it.” Then, Joffrey spoils his consideration with a little smirk. “I like a girl who knows how to keep her figure, you know.”

 _Oh, sod off._ Sansa is tempted to order a double plate of chips just to piss him off.

Thankfully, she’s saved from the further feigning of her good manners when Joffrey spots someone he knows at the bar.

“Excuse me a moment, I should say hello to Ilyn. He’s an old family friend.”

He heads off, and Sansa feels the tension lift from her shoulders like she’s in the throes of a hot stone massage.

_I should have gone to the spa for the weekend instead of this._

Gods, but she wishes she’d driven her own car tonight. This would be the perfect moment to make her getaway without, essentially, chucking her wallet in the bin. As it is, though, chances are Joffrey would sniff her out while she waited for a taxi out on the bustling downtown curb.

But Joffrey is for the moment distracted, and Sansa alone at the table. So in lieu of an early exit, she opts for another glass of wine — _I’m going to need it_ — when their server pops by.

The fruity flavor and her own reprieve from this so-far hellish night revitalize her. For the first time all evening, Sansa is actually enjoying herself, when —

She glances aside, and her eye catches a pair of grey ones at Shireen’s table. Two young men who must be the brothers she’d complained about had joined them. One of them looks like he’d be Arya’s type, and Sansa wonders fleetingly if she could be inconspicuous enough to snap his picture and text it to her sister — but it’s _fleeting_ because those grey eyes are doing something funny to her insides, and thus her attention is commanded entirely by the fourth member of their party.

He’s lean, bespectacled, with wild curls and a beard, a bit shabbily dressed, though not poorly — just as though he’d been working all day, judging by the detective’s badge slung around his neck. His tie is crooked, his plaid button-down a little wrinkled, there’s an ink splotch on his dark jeans and scuff marks on his boots, and Sansa feels like she’s been struck by lightning and punched in the gut all at once, yet it’s not unpleasant at all.

By all rights, it _should_ be unpleasant, this feeling, but the sensation makes her tingle all over. She’s been struck and punched but all she can feel is a warmth spreading through her body: it’s a hot shower at the end of a long day, it’s bath salts and rollercoasters, vanilla candles and a shot of tequila, clean sheets and a jump in the lake at the start of autumn. It’s excitement and comfort and, and… something _right_ , something like _bingo, jackpot, there you are, finally_.

Sansa can’t tell if this is good or bad, only that it’s happening — here and now, when she’s on a date with someone she doesn’t particularly like in the slightest on Valentine’s Day.

Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad, it’s definitely happening and it’s certainly cliché… but Sansa isn’t bothered by that. It’s _happening_ , and that’s that.

 _Jon_ , she thinks, recalling the name Shireen and Davos had called him. It suits him. She likes it, but, to be fair, she also likes the ink splotch on his jeans, so she doesn’t know that she can be trusted to be totally reasonable right now.

Jon’s gaze is still on hers as he begins to tap an idle fingertip atop the face of his wristwatch. Sansa wonders if that’s a nervous tic. It makes her smile, somehow, which in turn makes him smile right back at her. The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he does. That does something funny to her insides, too.

She’s not meant to believe in love at first sight anymore. But that smile of his might have just done the trick.


	2. ur hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: content warning for this chapter, there is a threat of sexual assault near the end. i’d like to stress that there’s Nothing to Worry About in the scope of this fic, however i‘m still not going to just throw that in there without telling you about it first
> 
> just like, fear not, bc the kill bill sirens are about to go off

As some fifteen-odd years her senior, Jon Snow hadn’t grown up in the same foster homes as Shireen, but he’s stayed in touch with Davos after he’d aged out, and so he regards her as a sister in many ways. He certainly knows her like a sister, which is how he comes to expect her subdued but nonetheless clear exasperation when he and Gendry arrive late to dinner.

Shireen makes no bones about stating the obvious, arms crossed as she does so. “You’re _late_.”

“Told you that’s how she was gonna greet us.” Gendry holds out a hand, palm up, as he and Jon slide into the booth. “Pony up, brother.”

Jon smacks his hand away. “I said the same thing.”

More perturbed by their state of dress than she is by the fact they’d apparently been making bets on her, Shireen frowns at their day-old clothes.

They’d both worked overnight shifts, but Jon still thinks he fares somewhat better now that he isn’t forced into the stiff, starchy uniform. Gendry prefers it that way, says he has less laundry to do since he wears the same thing nearly every day, but Jon had always found the collars too tight. Some of his mates joke that he only wanted to make detective so he could chase down perps in his skinny jeans. And while that’s not strictly true, Jon had enjoyed collecting his winnings the first time he proved that he could.

Not that that would impress Shireen. No, their monthly family dinners are sacred traditions not to be trifled with, and she has expectations of her brothers.

“You didn’t even go home to change.”

“That only would’ve made us later,” Gendry points out, rather reasonably, Jon thinks, but Shireen’s still not listening.

Instead, she releases a thoughtful _hum_ and says, “I suppose that’s fine. I bet Miss Sansa’s the sort who likes a man in uniform.”

 _Miss Sansa._ The name rings a bell, a whole cacophony of them, as Shireen had been talking his ear off about her art instructor since the start of term. She reckons Miss Sansa is perfect, and that Jon is just about good enough for her.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe Shireen, but Jon’s not about to let his twelve-year-old sister play matchmaker with his nonexistent love life. First, because that’s ridiculous; and second, because that nonexistent love life of his is precisely how he likes it.

Well, alright, so maybe he doesn’t _like_ it, Jon is willing to admit to himself, but it’s for the best. His own mother and father had had a whirlwind romance, tempestuous and ill-advised, which had resulted in his existence and the subsequent rift in his parents’ relationship. Now, Jon doesn’t blame himself for his father’s philandering and lies — _I never asked to be born, you know_ — but he doesn’t want to make the same mistakes, however inadvertently he might.

Lyanna Snow had passed shortly after her son’s birth, and Rhaegar Targaryen hadn’t wanted to claim the boy. So Jon had grown up in foster care and, by the age of fourteen, had found a home with Davos Seaworth, his wife, and their adopted son Gendry. The boys had had a fine and happy life with the Seaworths. Jon is plenty well-adjusted, educated, with a steady job and his own place. He just doesn’t want to ruin it by playing the game of love when he’s destined to be terrible at it.

He’s had a few relationships, here and there, but nothing ever stuck. He gravitates towards people who won’t let it stick, because they wanted freedom more than they wanted him, and Jon thinks that must be some subconscious thing, a survival instinct to keep himself from spending his life with the wrong person. To keep himself from settling. His relationships (if you could even call them that) tend to last long enough to offer some physical and emotional comforts, and then it’s over before anything real can truly begin.

He tells himself he doesn’t need anything real. It’s not true, but sometimes he almost fools himself into believing it.

And, sure, sometimes the rapturous way Shireen talks about Miss Sansa Stark makes Jon wonder things he has no business wondering, but… Well, he _shouldn’t be_ wondering them, is the point. He’s spent too much time and energy tempering his romantic streak. It won’t do him any good to indulge those fantasies; surely such musings could only end in disappointment and heartbreak.

But now Shireen’s gone and broached the topic before Jon can so much as get a drink. So, naturally, he panics.

“What? Shireen, tell me you didn’t invite your teacher out to dinner —”

_I can’t meet her in yesterday’s shirt, for fuck’s sake._

“ _I_ didn’t.” Shireen uses her fork to point across the way. “He did, apparently.”

Jon spins in his seat, and backhands Gendry when he guffaws, though Jon’s gaze is too busy following the direction of Shireen’s fork to bother focusing on his brother so he doesn’t even get a proper punch in, but he can’t _care_ about that right now because, because —

Oh. Oh, fuck. She’s pretty.

He fishes in his shirt pocket for his specs, to put them on so he can have a better look.

Miss Sansa Stark is _right_ _there_ , not close enough to make things uncomfortable, but still close enough that Jon can detect the slight furrow of her brow as her date drones on about hunting big game. Not exactly romantic, Jon thinks. He could do better.

At first glance, he’d like to try, too. Sansa’s just… she’s gorgeous, breathtaking, stop-your-heart-and-then- _please_ -give-me-mouth-to-mouth-to-resuscitate-me pretty. Soft waves of auburn hair fall, effortlessly stylish, over slim shoulders and down her back. She tucks some behind her ear and Jon’s hands twitch, wanting desperately to run through it. Her eyes are blue, strikingly so against the bold black of her expertly applied eyeliner. She must have steady hands, Jon guesses, and he looks at those next — smooth, soft, her nails painted gold, and an onyx stone winks at him from her left index finger.

Her dress is navy or indigo or cornflower, Jon doesn’t know the difference, but it makes her pale skin pop. It sheaths her in flowing silk, it’s like she’s dressed in a waterfall, the way it moves when she shifts in her seat. Jon’s gaze follows the long line of her legs under the table, and he catches the impatient tap of her foot. He wonders where that’s coming from, but he can hear her date blathering on and on, so he could take a fair enough guess.

Jon wishes Shireen _had_ invited her out to dinner. Or maybe he could have met her and done it himself. Whatever. Maybe he could still do it, so long as he’s got the right measure of things and she’s really not having some spectacular evening in the company of that bloke she’s with.

Lucky son of a bitch.

He really should have taken Shireen at her word, and thrown all of his reservations to the wind for once.

Especially since the lucky son of a bitch clearly isn’t good enough for her, as he’d just left her alone at their table. Jon has no way of knowing why he does such a stupid thing, only that he does, and it’s just… It’s _ridiculous_.

 _I mean, look at her in that dress_ , Jon thinks. _Y_ _ou’re just going to casually excuse yourself? Like you’ve got somewhere better to be? Yeah, right. Prick._

Jon has half a mind to go take that vacated seat himself. _He’d_ certainly never leave it, so long as Sansa stayed sat across from him.

And then she looks up, her eyes — two pools of deepest ocean blue, shimmering in the tea lights around them — catch on his, and Jon can’t manage to think at all.

_Oooh, fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck me, please…_

Jon could kick himself for the lecherous thought but — let’s face it, he admits, he’d like to get those legs around his hips. _Maybe around my neck first… No. Definitely, absolutely, no question about it, around my neck first._

This really isn’t an appropriate train of thought during family dinner.

But, Jon wants to be fair, it’s not entirely runaway sexual fantasies rampaging his insides right now. No, it had just been such an electric sort of shock when she’d looked at him, his baser instincts had been the first to stir. Now, though…

Now, he’s had a moment to collect himself, for his mind and body to get in sync, and _now_ he thinks that there’s something about this girl that just… _Ah, fuck._ He doesn’t know. Something about her that makes for sweaty palms and weak knees, but there’s this simultaneous _swoop!_ in his stomach that makes him want to smile even though he feels like he may throw up from the nerves behind it all.

He starts tapping at his wristwatch, a nervous habit. He wonders if that’s what makes her smile at him, and then he wonders why that would do it, but whatever, she’s smiling at him and that makes him smile, too. Or maybe he’s been smiling this whole time. He probably has, because how can anyone look at a girl like this and not be overcome with this electrifying, incandescent happiness that’s pooling through Jon’s bloodstream right this very moment?

It’s as though she’d looked at him, and suddenly he’d seen everything he’s ever wanted but was afraid he’d never have. Like he’d been wanting _her_ for a lifetime, and it only took her eyes on his to make him go, _oh,_ _that’s her, there she is,_ without so much as a word passing between them. Jon feels like he’d been holding his breath all this time, and only when Sansa Stark looked at him did he remember to exhale — only when she looked at him did he realize that he _should_ exhale, because it’s such a sweet relief to see her.

He feels… a lot of things right now, things he can’t quite pinpoint or articulate, but he feels them all deep in his heart, his gut, wherever and everywhere, and he _knows_. He doesn’t know _what_ , exactly, just that he knows it.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s not making a lick of sense. But that’s fine, it’s fantastic, because no matter what he knows or doesn’t, something’s finally _happening_ and he’s never felt better in his life than he does right now.

That is, until her date returns to his seat across from her. Sansa shoots Jon one last quirk of her lips before her gaze flicks away, and suddenly the world’s not as colorful as it was a moment ago.

Jon blinks, then frowns. “That her boyfriend?”

“No, I don’t think so. She just said it was a date,” Shireen tells him. “I don’t think she likes him very much, though. He’s rather loud, isn’t he, Dad?”

Davos clears his throat. “That he is, Shireen.” He levels a pointed look at the boys, who take his meaning without another word.

 _Ah._ Davos had been on the force, too, so it’s second nature for him and the boys to understand each other. So it turns out that Jon has the measure of things just right, then. Her date really is an arse, one who’s likely had too much to drink, and they’ll need to keep an eye on it if they’re worth their salt at all.

“Good thing we showed up in uniform after all, hm?” Gendry mutters. He elbows Jon, who winces at the sharp pain and elbows him back, but Gendry’s a prick and he’s built like a brick so he doesn’t so much as flinch. “Go on, then, show off your shiny new detective’s badge. Puff out your chest and intimidate him.”

“What, you’re not going to help me?”

“She’s your damsel, mate,” Gendry reminds him, thus saving Jon from his slip of the tongue. Because he doesn’t want his brother’s help, really, Jon would like this Miss Sansa all to himself and he’s sure enough he can handle her nearly drunk and disorderly date on his own. “Shireen reckons she’s got a sister I’d like, though, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I said _you’d_ like _her_ , yeah,” Shireen puts in, “but Miss Arya would eat you alive.”

“Eh, I think that means she’ll like me back, then.”

She shrugs. “It’s your dignity.”

Jon is still sputtering over what he’s meant to do. He’d made detective for a reason, not just because of the skinny jeans bet, but this situation is pairing much too well with his penchant for personal crises for him to think straight.

“I can’t just _intimidate_ _him_ ,” he says, which is perfectly true. “That’s not strictly legal, is it?”

Now it’s Gendry who shrugs. “You can if he’s being a dick.”

Davos clears his throat again, which makes Shireen scoff. “Oh, come off it, Dad, I’ve heard the word ‘dick’ before.”

“Shireen!”

“Right,” Jon says, loudly enough to be heard over the other, less important conversation happening at the table, “well, unfortunately he’ll have to be a bit more dickish before I can do anything about it.”

And it _is_ unfortunate, truly. It’s fucking unbearable.

Sansa’s date had returned to his seat only to continue to regale her with his hunting stories, boasting about some (probably illegal, or at the least unethical) game he’d bagged but apparently that’s not all he’s capable of. Jon’s hand clenches into a fist when the guy goes on, segueing into tales of his other accomplishments — _conquests_ , more like, the way he tells it.

“I usually like blondes,” he says. “I’ve never had a redhead before. Is it true what they say, then?”

To her credit, Sansa doesn’t flinch. “Listen, Joffrey, I think —”

 _Joffrey._ Well, Jon doesn’t like that the guy’s name is the first thing he hears in Sansa’s melodic, slightly husky voice, but there’s a pitch of annoyance to it, too, and now Jon’s got a name for the arrest report without any trouble.

“Ah, go on, then,” Joffrey interrupts her, “men don’t like a woman who thinks too much.”

He cannot be serious. Jon truly wants to believe that, and yet…

“Have another drink and loosen up, will you?” Joffrey suggests with a laugh, so he must be self-aware enough to know that Sansa’s not pleased with him, but still oblivious enough that he thinks this is all some great joke. “You could use it. You know what they say about the third date, right?”

“That it’s the last one?” Sansa replies dully, which makes Jon grin a little and Gendry choke on his water.

“Nah, come on, babe…”

Jon’s grin disappears as quickly as it had come.

When Sansa says nothing to his cajoling, Joffrey releases an irritable huff. “Are you going to be this much of a tight-ass when I wanna fuck you later? Warn me now if I’m gonna need a crowbar to pry your legs apart, Lady Sansa.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Gendry curses under his breath. Beside him, Shireen snaps her fingers three times, then starts the progression over again (a nervous tic of hers), and Davos is nearly out of his seat.

Jon shakes his head at his father. There’s a strangely calm sort of rage bubbling deep in his gut; he doesn’t want to let it sit. He hates to say it, but he’s seen guys like Joffrey before, and he knows he can do more with his badge than Davos can do in his retirement. Of course, anyone could get up and tell Joffrey to fuck off, but he’d have no obligation to listen to it. Clearly, he’s got no moral hang-ups keeping him in check, so chances are he won’t listen when someone else tries to tell him what to do.

It’s all such bullshit. But Jon would really, really like to arrest him if given the opportunity.

“You’re not going to need a crowbar,” Sansa says, lower and more evenly and like she doesn’t care at all about what Joffrey has to say. “Reckon you won’t need it when you’re home alone with your hand tonight. I’ll take a cab back to mine.”

“Come on,” Joffrey says again, his temper ticking hotter with every word. “Don’t be such an idiot. You know I always get what I want.”

Her eyebrows go up, incredulous and at her wit’s end, just as Jon’s patience hits its limit, too.

“Right.” Jon wipes his face with a napkin, then tosses the thing to the table as he stands up. He offers no other parting words, as there’s nothing more to say before he makes his way to the table at which Miss Sansa Stark is spending her far less-than-dreamy Valentine’s evening.

Because really, Jon thinks as he reaches his destination — planted between the table settings which separate Sansa and his latest perp, gods be willing — Gendry’s  _oh, fuck no_ pretty much said it all earlier, anyway.


	3. be my hero

“Evening.”

Sansa looks up not to their server as she’d assumed, but Shireen’s knockout of a brother — _Jon_ — with whom she’s almost certain she might be in love.

Or maybe that’s only the wine and Joffrey’s comparably poor company talking but, either way, Sansa’s (perhaps foolishly, but there’s nothing to be done about it now) smitten heart flutters at the sight of him. His button-down’s even more wrinkled up close. And that voice is just… something else. If she weren’t so agitated with Joffrey at the moment, that low, rough growl would have been enough to get her thighs rubbing together in appreciation.

Just another reason to get rid of Joffrey, then, she supposes, as if she doesn’t have a pile of reasons already: he’s rude, pompous, whiny, entitled, with a nasty mean streak bordering on violence. Sansa’s not afraid of him, per se, but his escalating temper had made her uneasy. She’d come here with him and, taxi or otherwise, he knows where she lives. That’s quite enough to make any girl uncomfortable.

Things had begun to take a turn from a dismal date to fishing the pepper spray from her bag. And while she would have done that, easy, she doesn’t relish the thought of its necessity, and so she’s glad of Jon’s interference.

Joffrey, however, is not. “Do you mind?”

“Nope,” Jon replies. “Couldn’t help but overhear you, so I thought I’d suggest you take it down a notch, or else start thinking before you speak, because I’m _sure_ you didn’t mean to threaten your lovely date here.”

He glances at Sansa then, a slight pink tinge spreading across his face when he does — his only sign of weakness. It’s endearing, coupled with the way he’d called her _lovely_ , not like he was making a pass at her, but as if he were simply stating a fact.

Oh, lord, but is she in trouble with this one.

Not the same sort of trouble as Joffrey, no, a much better kind than that — because Joffrey’s more trouble than he’s worth, and all he seems to do is stir up more.

“Uh, alright,” he scoffs now, causing Jon to return his full attention to him. “Well, thanks for the suggestion, mate, but I don’t think this is any of your business.”

Jon looks pointedly down at his detective’s badge. “Sure about that?”

That gives Joffrey pause, but he only does so long enough to frown. “Are you threatening me?” he wants to know, his tone so indignant you’d think he hadn’t had too much to drink and made loud, aggressive sexual comments for anyone to hear. “Do you know who my grandfather is?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. Tywin Lannister is always getting his grandson out of questionable situations — so says the information Arya had been digging up since Sansa’s first date with him — but she has a feeling the man wouldn’t be so willing if Joffrey forces any contention between their families. The Starks’ good graces aren’t a luxury the Lannisters or Baratheons can afford to lose.

“I don’t even know who _you_ are,” Jon informs him. Something flashes in his eyes, but his voice is low and even when he continues, commanding authority without completely revealing any ill will underneath. “All I know is that I’ve been listening to your foul mouth for the past quarter of an hour and you’ve just about talked yourself into a night in the hole. So I can either escort you out the door, or we can take this all the way down to the station.”

Joffrey smirks; he’s been smirking damn near all night. “I’ll just go ahead and take Sansa here back to mine.”

 _I think I’ve established that’s not happening_ , she thinks. But she’s saved from further communication with a man she’d rather never see again, much less talk to, when Jon speaks up in her stead.

“That wasn’t an option.”

“Not really up to you, is it?”

“Nor you.” Jon looks to her again. “Sansa, do you fancy going back to his?”

She likes the way her name sounds when he says it. She needs to get a grip. So she shakes her head, just once, clears her throat and says, “Um — no, thank you.”

Jon grins at her then, a close-mouthed, self-satisfied sort of smile. Sansa thinks it would have looked intolerably arrogant on anyone else, but he manages to make it work. He looks so pleased with her answer, and he _had_ just rescued her from this downward spiral of an evening, so she decides he’s earned this little self-indulgence.

“There you go, then.” He nods at Joffrey. “You can leave now. Or maybe head back to the bar and get yourself a coffee or several to sober up.”

Joffrey looks as though he would very much like to argue further, but Jon cuts him off with a sensible threat. “I see you walk out that door, I’ll arrest you right now. I don’t give a shit what happens to you, but I’m not about to let you go off drunk driving when there’s other civilians on the road, you understand?”

“Whatever. Fucking fantastic waste of my time,” Joffrey mumbles, with a pointed look at Sansa. Then, louder, he tells her, “Enjoy paying for your taxi uptown.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Jon’s eyes blaze as Joffrey pushes back from the table and stands. “I’ll take her home.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence, a crackling tension in the air that speaks volumes — of what, precisely, Sansa doesn’t know. She hardly even knows how she feels about it, only that she feels something rich and poignant and possibly not completely knowable. Something indefinable, maybe, or…

Or maybe she’s just had too much to drink.

 _But_ _since when are two glasses of wine “too much to drink”?_

The moment’s over before she can wrap her head around it. With one last mumbled curse, Joffrey stalks off towards the bar. Jon watches him go, as if to make sure he’s well and truly gone, before he turns back to Sansa.

The stony expression he’d worn when dealing with Joffrey has smoothed to a look of concern as he regards her. He lifts his hand, then hesitates on his way to her shoulder, as if he’s not sure whether or not he should touch her.

_Oh, my god, please touch me…_

But, alas, he doesn’t. Sansa knows she should be grateful that he doesn’t just put his hands on her, but still she feels a keen sense of disappointment when he stuffs it in his pocket instead.

His eyes are just as soft as she imagines his touch would be, though, when he asks, “Are you alright?”

“I am.” Now, she feels that gratefulness easing her stiff muscles, which had tensed with every word out of Joffrey’s mouth until Jon had come along. “Thank you for that.”

He smiles again, shyly this time around.

“Sorry if I — I didn’t mean to suggest, erm, anything when I said I’d take you home.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he babbles on. “I mean, uh, maybe I did, a bit, just to piss him off, but I don’t — that is, I _will_ take you home, whenever you like. You haven’t got to spend a small fortune on a taxi, but I’m not trying to…”

He trails off, shrugs, then coughs. “Yeah. Um, I’m Jon, by the way. My sister, Shireen, you’re her art teacher and she talks on about you nearly non-stop, so I knew _of_ you but we’ve not properly met or anything, so… yeah,” he says again, then winces in embarrassment. “I’m Jon, and I hope I didn’t spoil your evening.”

“You didn’t, not at all. Joffrey did a fine job of that all on his own,” she assures him. “Until you showed up, that is. My night’s a right side better now.”

Sansa smiles at his pink cheeks. Jon really is unbearably sweet, she thinks. Her stomach is all butterflies at his bashful grin and the way he scuffs his toes against the floor.

“Well, I’d like to keep that up, then,” Jon says. “So I’m happy to take you home.”

_Yours or mine?_

_Oh, fuck, don’t say that!_

“I don’t want to put you out,” she worries. She doesn’t necessarily want to say it, doesn’t want to give him any excuses so that he might politely rescind his offer, but her own good manners demand that she give him the chance. “I could take the bus.”

“In that dress?” Jon blurts, but his immediately widened eyes suggest he hadn’t meant to. And while Sansa’s face goes hot, she can’t say that she’s displeased (she’s most assuredly not). “I mean — shit. I just, I wouldn’t want you to —”

He stops, takes a couple of deep breaths, and tries again, more composed now, though — and Sansa’s happy for this, too — not entirely put-together just yet. “I’ll give you a ride. It’s no trouble.”

Sansa bites her bottom lip, and doesn’t miss the way his gaze drops to her mouth at the movement. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your dinner…”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t be. I mean…” Jon gestures to his table, where all three occupants are staring openly and nodding vigorously. They’re giving him the thumbs-up, and his brother — who Sansa really needs to get the skinny on, for Arya’s sake, she’s just got a feeling about the two of them — is mouthing quite an enthusiastic, repeated _GO!_ “Just look at them, they want me gone.”

There’s nothing left to protest, no other arrangements to be made, and what’s more is that Sansa wants, so badly, to take him up on his offer. He looks at her so sweetly, earnest like, and there’s still that _something’s_ _happening_ flutter in her heart when she looks at him. She’s never felt this way before, least of all so quickly upon meeting someone — and she hadn’t even met him when the flutter began; there’d been nothing but eye contact, and she’d felt it all the way down to her bones.

This has to mean… Well, _something_ , right? Maybe there’s more to Valentine’s Day than all that chocolate factory propaganda Sansa had begun to suspect. Maybe there’s some magic to it, after all.

“I’m well-shot of this place.” Jon’s gaze flicks towards the bar for a second, then it’s back on hers in another. “I’m ready whenever you are, if you’d like. My car’s right out front.”

Sansa gives him another smile, to which he responds with his own, and that only broadens with her next words. “I suppose you wouldn’t be much of a knight in shining armor without your noble steed, would you?”

“I hope my car can live up to the praise.” He offers his hand to help her up, and Sansa takes it.

When his skin touches hers, she can feel that right down to her bones, too.

Perhaps it’s true that knights-in-shining-armor are very impractical nowadays, Sansa thinks again, as she and Jon head out, waving to his family as they go. But she’s finding now that her knight-in-a-shining-badge (and a crooked tie and ink-stained jeans) is much more preferable to any storybook heroes.

Because this time, it’s something real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i know everyone wanted joffrey to, like, die or get his ass handed to him, so i hope this altercation wasn’t too disappointing. but we’re going for the sweet candy fluff here, okay!!! no sense in giving the guy more importance than he deserves, and in this case he was just a plot device to get jon to play the hero for sansa so they can commence with the making out. 
> 
> and on that note... see y’all back here tomorrow for the valentine’s conclusion ;)


	4. sweet talk

It starts raining on the drive uptown.

The streets are packed, too. It’s going to be a long drive. All things considered, this would normally be Jon’s nightmare: trapped in a car with bad weather, bad traffic, and an as-good-as stranger in his passenger seat.

_But._

Something about Sansa puts him at ease. It’s effortless to talk to her and she smells like something sweet — some artificially made peaches-and-cream fragrance that makes Jon’s mouth water. The hardest part of the whole thing turns out to be the near-irrepressible urge to reach over and hold her hand.

(Equally difficult to resist, Jon thinks as Sansa shifts, causing the hem of her dress to hitch up to reveal another half-inch of leg, is the urge to pull his car over and steam up the windows with her.)

He quashes his thoughts, tender and dirty alike, and lets himself enjoy simply talking to her.

Sansa tells him about how she’d come to be on such a rotten date, and how awkward the next family soiree will be, but “It’s just as well that I won’t need to ditch him now. I think he’s gotten the point.”

Jon, in turns, tells her how little he dates. His late mother and absentee father’s relationship had been enough to put him off the supposed thrill of casual flings. Although he’d had a few foster families who made him reconsider his stance on romance, Davos and his wife especially, he thinks perhaps the hesitation is something he’d been born with.

“Sorry,” he says when his mind catches up to his mouth. He blinks, surprised at his openness. “That’s a bit heavy to share with someone you’ve only just met, isn’t it?”

“Jon, you rescued me from very public, very unwanted sexual advances,” Sansa reminds him. “I think ‘heavy’ might be something we’ll just have to deal with.”

“Right.” Jon swallows his reignited irritation with Joffrey. No point stewing in it well after the fact, and besides _he’s_ the one taking Sansa home now. “Well. Can’t argue with that.”

“So what about something serious, then?” she asks, bringing their conversation back ‘round. “You said you’re not a casual fling sort of guy, but what about the other end of the spectrum?”

“Oh. Well, it’s just…” Jon considers her question, one that he’d asked himself countless times before and could never really figure out — or perhaps he just hadn’t cared enough to try. Now that Sansa’s asked, though, he finds that he _does_ care; he cares quite a lot, actually.

“It’s hard for me to get a read on what someone else wants. I get nervous, I don’t want to put the pressure on,” he explains, hoping it will make more sense to him as he goes. “It’s made dating more of a chore than something I actually want to do. And I don’t want something just for the sake of having it, you know? It’s more like, if I meet someone I fancy, I want it to be about that person, not just about getting a date or being in a relationship just to say that I’m in one.”

“And how do you know if you fancy someone,” she presses, “if you won’t take them to dinner to give them a try?”

She’s teasing him. Jon can hear it in her voice, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her smile, which makes him smile too. And now that he’s come this far, he thinks he can give her an answer.

“When you know, you know, right?” He sighs, a little irritated with himself for wanting such whimsy, such impracticality, to be true. And yet… “Christ, I hope so, anyway.”

_I hope it’s you._

“I think that’s true,” Sansa says softly. “If that makes you feel better about it.”

He casts a look her way, just long enough to catch her looking right back at him. It makes something wriggle in his belly, nerves and a sense of anticipation, too. Jon doesn’t know what it is he’s waiting for, but he thinks he’s been waiting for her, and now it’s just a matter of what happens next.

“It does,” he tells her, sincerely. “Thank you, Sansa.”

There’s a beat or two of silence between them, and then they move on to lighter topics of conversation. Still, there’s something buzzing in the compact space of the car that lasts all the way to Sansa’s apartment building.

By the time they get there, the rain has died down to a drizzle. The streetlamps light up the road in splashes of bright yellow, making the puddles sparkle and wink, rippling out in pools of gold when a few passersby walk carelessly through them. The night sky overhead is clearing, and a few stars peek out from behind the clouds.

Despite Sansa’s protests that it’s only a short walk up the path to her building, Jon digs an extra jacket out from his backseat and helps her into it.

“Come on, then,” he insists, even as she relents. “Wouldn’t want you to muck up your pretty dress in the rain. Let me be a gentleman.”

“I’ve gotten that vibe from you, yeah.” Sansa’s teeth flash when she grins at him. “A rather pushy gentleman, at any rate.”

“As long as it keeps you warm, I’ll take that for a compliment.”

He walks her up, their shoes tapping gently against the damp pavement. He wants to hold her hand, just as he had the entire drive, but still he doesn’t push his luck. Their arms brush as they walk, and the backs of their hands bump a few times before Jon thinks fuck it, he’ll push his luck as far as she’ll let him — and he slips his hand in hers, interlaces their fingers and squeezes.

He tilts his head towards her. “Alright?”

She’s blushing, as assuredly as he is, and she’s biting back another smile as she nods. “More than.”

That makes Jon’s heart skip.

He nearly coughs the thing up, too, when she fiddles with her keys and asks if he’d like to come in for a drink.

Jon says yes, of course. Well, he babbles incoherently for a few seconds first, but Sansa seems to like his babbling so Jon figures he’s doing alright for himself. She asked him up to her flat, after all, so he must be doing something right.

He’s got a few other somethings he’d like to try on her, too, he thinks when they step into her place and she shrugs out of his coat. The dress leaves her shoulders bare; Jon’s eyes trace along the gentle slope of them, and his hands twitch, eager to do likewise if only she’d let him push his luck _that_ far.

He hopes to find out.

They head to the kitchen, making idle chit-chat along the way. Jon compliments her decor — it’s bright and warm and cozy, rather like Sansa herself. He feels comfortable, just as he had when he was boxed into his car with her. He’s nervous, too, but that’s because he’s nearly head-over-heels for this girl already, and anyway who wouldn’t be an anxious mess when Sansa keeps looking at him the way that she is? Jon reckons he’s looking at her the same way: shy but hopeful, wondering what’s coming next and knowing what they want that to be, but then wondering more if the other wants the same thing.

But at the moment, they both pretend all they want is a drink, and Sansa opens her fridge to show off what she’s got.

“Don’t judge, alright?” she says to Jon’s raised eyebrows. “My brothers and sister were here at the weekend and left me with half a freezer full of booze. Robb left the rum — he’s devastated, but he was too hungover to remember to take it when he left, so it’s fair game as far as I’m concerned. I’ve no idea what that is, Bran drinks every craft beer on the planet so it’s always something new with him. The soda is Rickon’s and since he’s underage I’m going to pretend that he doesn’t drink the craft stuff, too. Whiskey’s Arya’s, she drinks it straight because I think she might be clinically insane, there’s no other explanation for her tenacity.

“But, as I said, it’s all fair game.” Another smile. “I’ve got wine, too.”

Jon doesn’t know why this moment feels so right to him. Maybe it’s that smile Sansa tosses his way, or the way she goes on and on about her family, who she clearly loves with all her heart, or perhaps she just looks too irresistible in the ugly yellow light of the refrigerator bulb, but —

He nudges the door closed and, when she turns to ask him what that’s about, he catches her mouth in a kiss.

And it’s… pretty bloody brilliant.

Sansa gasps a little in surprise, but then she’s melting into the kiss, into him, before Jon can think that maybe he should pull back and apologize. She tastes like the two glasses of sweet white wine he’d seen her have earlier, and it’s the only drink he wants now.

_And for the rest of my life, too._

It’s the sort of romantic thought he'd seldom allowed himself before. But that was _before_ — before tonight, before he discovered that his little sister really did know what was best for him, apparently, before Sansa. And his life isn’t _before-Sansa_ anymore.

The realization makes him kiss her harder.

One arm goes around her waist to pull her closer, while his other hand does what it had been dying to do when he’d first seen her: pushes through those long auburn waves of hair, tugging gently to change the angle of the kiss, taking it deeper as their mouths part and tongues sweep over each other’s.

He’s backing her up against the countertop when a thought — unbidden and intrusive and a complete and utter cockblock — occurs to him. Regrettably, he yanks his mouth from hers, eliciting a whine from them both, which is then replaced by staggered, panting breaths

“Fuck.” Jon searches her face for any signs of displeasure. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry.”

Sansa blinks wide, dark and dilated eyes in confusion. “What for?”

“Was that — I mean, was that romantic enough?” His brow furrows, confused himself now. _Did I do this right at the start, or am I just fucking it all up now?_   “I just sort of, of laid one on you right in your kitchen. I should’ve done it outside, shouldn’t I’ve? It was raining a bit and the stars were coming out, that would’ve been a right side smoother than just — accosting you like that.”

“Oh.” She laughs a little at that, relieved and breathless and (Jon hopes) charmed by his idiocy. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh,” he echoes. “Well. That’s — that’s good, then. Could I… you know, could I have another go?”

“Mmhmm,” she hums through grinning lips, eyes fluttering shut again as Jon leans back in.

Hands tangled in one another’s clothes, in each other’s hair, they’re plucking kisses everywhere they can reach — lips and cheeks and jaw and neck — and exchanging confessions as they explore.

“I have to tell you this, Sansa, but when I met you tonight I just…” Jon shakes his head, unable to believe how it had all come to this fantastic, wondrous thing, as he sucks enthusiastic kisses up her neck. “When I saw you, I felt something. Before I’d even spoken to you, it was just this — I don’t even know how to describe it —”

Sansa’s lip gloss sticks to his stubble when she tells him, “I felt it, too.”

“You did?”

“I didn’t want to say anything because, well, you ever notice how a bloke can say things like that and it’s always dead romantic, but when a woman says it we come off as clingy or like we’re jumping the gun?”

“You can say all the clingy things to me you’d like,” Jon assures her. “I’m mad about you, even if I don’t know how to explain it right, but I don’t think it matters. It’s just, it’s _you_ , and I…”

He trails off, hopeless, but Sansa saves him with her reply: “I get it, Jon. It’s just you for me, too.”

He kisses her for that, full on the mouth. It makes her laugh again, until Jon’s hands begin a slow and steady caress up her sides and she moans — a throaty, delicious thing that explodes on Jon’s tongue.

It’s all eager and frenzied and needful, and it’s making him dizzy in a way he’s never experienced before. Sansa is a whole new world for him, and it’s one Jon thinks he was always meant to be in.

_Romantic sap._ But he’s not sorry for it, not in the slightest.

“So, um…” Sansa is panting more when he gives her a second to breathe. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom?” He must be dreaming. “You — you want to have sex with me?”

“Well, I…” Yet another laugh from her, different this time, like she’s nervous and giddy all at once. Jon wants to know about all her other laughs, too. “If you’d be amenable to that, then, yes.”

“If I’d be amenable to that…” Jon’s in a daze, surely, as he can do nothing but repeat the impossible things Sansa’s saying to him. He gives his head another shake to clear it, and the motion seems to flick some switch and suddenly he understands with perfect clarity what’s going on — and he’s really, really into it. “I — hell yes, obviously. Bedroom, couch, your kitchen table looks sturdy, too, wherever you like.”

In the end — and it doesn’t take very long for them to get to this point, mind — they make it as far as the couch.

Mouths seeking, smiling, hands roaming and fumbling between kisses and giggles and Sansa’s little screech when Jon tickles her by accident (he’d only meant to feel her up, but she arches up against him when he tickles her and so he does it another time or two for good measure).

“Oh, wow.” Jon groans as he helps Sansa shimmy out of her dress, revealing miles of the softest skin, covered only by swatches of lace. “Oh, Christ, fuck me, _wow_ …”

“Smooth talker,” Sansa jokingly accuses as she undoes his tie.

He chuckles, a bit shakily because — well, _wow_ and all that. “Give a lad a break, would you? I feel like I’ve been hit upside the head with a blunt object,” he admits, and enjoys the pink of her skin when he does. Her blush travels just about everywhere, and he wants to follow that path with his mouth. “Alright, love, up here, now —”

He takes her about the waist and hauls her into his lap so she’s straddling him. His lips latch onto hers immediately afterwards, arms locking around her back to keep her in place.

Not _too_ in place, though. Jon’s grip moves to her hips to guide them, so that Sansa is grinding against his stiffening cock as his own hips keep up a steady rhythm beneath her.

“Like that, love.” Jon hisses out a breath between clenched teeth as Sansa moves, and cards her fingers through his curls. There’s an electric sort of sensation sparking everywhere she touches, and it sends jolts of wanting her, needing her, through his body. “God, you feel good. That’s it — _oh_ , fuck, ride me just like that, there’s a good girl.”

“ _Really_ smooth talker,” Sansa reiterates, not so jokingly this time. She sighs when he starts kissing her neck, when one of his hands slides up to palm her tits.

He unhooks her bra as she flicks at the zipper of his trousers. She arches when his other hand moves down to join hers, to slip into her panties as she reaches into his boxers to touch him. He bucks up when she does.

“Fuck —” Jon’s voice is thick, rough, when he turns his face into hers so he can catch her kiss-swollen lips with his own. “You want this, Sansa? Because I — _fuck_ , I want you.”

“Yes, yeah, yes,” Sansa repeats herself, punctuating each affirmation with a kiss. She giggles more when she feels Jon’s smile beneath her wandering mouth. “I’m sorry, you’ve got me all excited.”

“ _Don’t_ apologize for that,” Jon near begs her, so excited himself that he almost doesn't know what to do with his hands.

_Almost._ But, thankfully for the pair of them, he manages to get ahold of himself just enough to figure it out.

They haven’t got the patience to fully undress the first time. Sansa’s still in her underthings, and Jon’s in his trousers and his button-down’s open but not off. He gets a good shiver when she runs her hands over his bare chest, and he can’t wait to take her to bed later and feel all of her skin against all of his.

Right now, though…

They trade moans when he eases inside of her, Sansa’s hands are on his shoulders and Jon’s are on her waist. She rolls her hips as he thrusts up, and god damn if it doesn’t feel like the sweetest thing.

“Oh my god,” Jon chokes out as they move together. “ _Oooh_ , my god —”

“Don’t make me laugh!” Sansa tries to scold him, but that makes her do it, anyway. “I don’t think you’re supposed to make me laugh when you’re — _oh_.”

Jon grins wickedly when his hand snakes between them to finger her clit. “Sorry,” he says, would-be-conversationally if it weren’t for the gruff, aroused timbre of his voice, “what was that? Something funny, love?”

“Uh-uh.” Sansa shakes her head and leans in for a kiss, which Jon gladly gives. It’s hungry, sloppy, but it makes him move faster, harder inside of her, keeping his thrusts in tune with his fingers.

He wants to push his luck some more, and make her come half a dozen times right here on her couch.

In the end — and this time it takes quite a bit longer than it did to reach the couch in the first place, because Jon wants to take his time with her and Sansa wants it to go on and on and on — they make it to three before Jon carries her to the bedroom.

There, they eventually get to three more, and Sansa can’t even mind his smug smirk when they’ve finished. He’s earned it, and what’s more is that he’s smug because she got off so many times.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she tells him as they lay, sweaty and breathless and dazed, grinning like mad and twisted up together in her sheets.

The corners of his mouth quirk further up. “I do now.”

When Valentine’s Day ticks over to the next, the romance of the holiday follows close behind — because maybe there is still a little magic left in the world. They plan on staying together to see it through.

“I’ll even take you out to dinner to give you a try,” Jon teases her, and strokes his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Whatever you’d like.”

And that, Sansa thinks when she accepts another kiss, both of them smiling into it, is precisely the sort of grand romantic declaration she’d always wanted to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thanks for reading, beebs! i’ll be adding a little bonus scene/epilogue sometime this weekend as an extra thanks for all the love i’ve gotten on this ficlet, so stay tuned! xx


	5. (+1) txt me

**SHIREEN** : Have you taken Miss Sansa out on a date yet?

 **JON** : ??? several  
Get out of here  
Why are you asking me this

 **SHIREEN** : She’s been really happy lately and I wanted to know if it was because of you.  
I told some of my friends it’s because she’s in love, but they think she won the lotto.  
Though if they’re right I don’t know what she’d still be doing here.

 **JON** : I am simultaneously touched and offended  
You can tell your mates it’s bc she’s in love  
With me, specifically  
That part’s very important  
Don’t forget that part

 **SHIREEN** : Don’t be so braggadocious.

 **JON** : Christ, do I owe you money for using such a pretentious vocabulary word?

 **SHIREEN** : Yes.

 **JON** : Right.  
Into the uni fund it goes, then

*****

**SANSA** : Stop texting Shireen during school hours.

 **JON** : But I’m texting about YOU

 **SANSA** : I’m sure that betrays some school rule about appropriateness.

 **JON** : Sansa  
You know it gets me hot when you talk about appropriateness  
Don’t tease me

 **SANSA** : Oh, alright. I’m heading out for the day but I’ll let you get back to work.

 **JON** : NO  
School hours are over, Miss Stark  
Text me dirty things, please

 **SANSA** : You’re working!

 **JON** : I’m off in an hour  
Let the games begin

 **SANSA** : Naughty.

 **JON** : Oh, I like where this is going

 **SANSA** : I thought you might. ;)  
Now, then, where to begin…

 **SANSA** : _typing…_

 **JON** : ::panting::

 

* * *

 

 **ARYA** : who tf is gendry and why does he have my phone number

 **SANSA** : He’s Jon’s brother and because I gave it to him.

 **ARYA** : wtf???????  
stop trying to pimp me out, woman!!!!

 **SANSA** : Text him back, you’ll like him.

 **ARYA** : i will not  
i refuse

 **SANSA** : Don’t be stubborn.

 **ARYA** : i’m shite at dates

 **SANSA** : I know. That’s why I orchestrated this one. So go on, don’t let my good deed go to waste.

 **ARYA** : i’m going to ask him for a shirtless pic  
i need to know if this is worth it

 **SANSA** : That’s fair.  
I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, either. *wolf whistles*

 **ARYA** : alright, you’ve convinced me

*****

**JON** : Tell your sister I’ll buy her a ludicrously priced bottle of whiskey if she texts Gendry back right now immediately  
He’s been waiting on her reply for 15 minutes  
I think he’s abt to have some sort of fit

 **SANSA** : It’s things like this that color me so shocked that the two of you don’t actually share any DNA.

 **JON** : ………what are you implying

 **JON** : Wait  
Nevermind  
We have a new problem

 **SANSA** : _typing…_

 **JON** : DID YOU TELL ARYA TO ASK GENDRY FOR A SHIRTLESS PIC?????  
AND THEN YOU WOLF-WHISTLED AT HIM??????

 **SANSA** : Why are you yelling

 **JON** : I THOUGHT WE WERE IN LOVE  
AND YOU WOLF-WHISTLE AT MY BROTHER??

 **SANSA** : Oh, please.

 **JON** : You have wounded me greatly, madam

 **SANSA** : Why don’t you come over here and take off *your* shirt for me, then?

 **JON** : You only want me for my body

 **SANSA** : Yes, Jon, that’s exactly it.

 **JON** : _typing…_

 **JON** : I can live with that.  
See you in 20. xx

 

* * *

 

 **ROBB** : Ugh Joffrey’s here, heads-up

 **SANSA** : I assumed he would be. It’s alright, I’m bringing Jon with me. We’ll be there soon.

 **ROBB** : Listen I’m glad you met Jon bc he saved you from that prick and all and that’s dope, but  
Sometimes Arya tells me things I don’t wanna know and now I can never look the two of you in the eye ever again  
So idk what you want me to do with this information

 **SANSA** : You’re just mad that I used up your rum. You’re so immature.

 **ROBB** : No  
I am **mad** bc you used up the whipped cream I left there for my orange jello shots  
I WAS TRYING TO MAKE CREAMSICLE FLAVOR SANSA  
And instead of a delicious treat reminiscent of my childhood, Arya went ahead and told me what you and Jon used that whipped cream for, and no amount of chaste holy worship on Sundays can cleanse my tainted mind’s eye

 **SANSA** : So take it up with Arya. She didn’t need to tell you that.

 **ROBB** : I can’t  
She just took Gendry on a tour of the house. She’s been showing him the inside of the pantry for, oh, about quarter of an hour now

 **SANSA** : LOL

 **ROBB** : UGH.

*****

**JON** : JOFFREY’S going to be there????

 **SANSA** : You’re not allowed to speak with my siblings anymore.

 **JON** : djdjskskdjsklakdjdld  
Baby  
Don’t make me go to this thing. I want to meet your family but does it have to be at this swanky party with a load of other families? Including Joffrey’s??  
Can’t we just stay at mine all day??

 **SANSA** : I’m almost to yours as we speak. If you’re not waiting for me on the curb, I’ll go without you and THEN who’s going to rescue me from Joffrey’s bad attitude?

 **JON** : :(

 **SANSA** : You know it gets me all worked up when you play the hero, right? You’re so handsome when you go all growly over me like that.

 **JON** : :)

 **SANSA** : My dress has a plunging neckline and a slit up the skirt.

 **JON** : :D

 **SANSA** : *And*  
My house has eleven bedrooms, so…

 **JON** : Sansa. Darling.  
You had me at the dress.

 **SANSA** : Thought so. x

*****

**ROBB** : Oh ffs Sansa please tell me you’re not showing Jon the pantry, too

 **GENDRY** : it’s a nice pantry

 **ROBB** : Yeah I bet, asshole

 **ARYA** : damn robb be nice  
i seem to recall you showing off that pantry to jeyne the first time you brought her ‘round  
it’s a family tradition

 **ROBB** : Way to make it weird

 **ARYA** : whatever, you started this

 **ARYA** : sansa hurry up tho  
you make the best margaritas and i am PARCHED

 **GENDRY** : i thought you were a whiskey girl?

 **ROBB** : Can’t believe you just spent half an hour feeling up my sister and you don’t even know her drink

 **ARYA** : ew robb NOW who’s making it weird  
gendry try one of sansa’s margaritas and you’ll have an exception to your ipa rule too

 **SANSA** : I’ll be down in a minute

 **JON** : Fifteen

 **ROBB** : EW

 **ARYA** : good for you guys  
gendry, congratulate them

 **GENDRY** : robb is giving me the evil eye from across the room so

**_GENDRY left the chat_ **

**_ARYA added GENDRY to the chat_ **

**ARYA** : coward

*****

**ARYA** : LMAO rickon shotgunned a beer and just barfed it all up on joffrey’s shoes

 **ARYA** : i know you have six more minutes of your requested fifteen but  
you needed to know

 **JON** : Pic?

 **ARYA** : obvs

 **JON** : This makes me almost as happy as being upstairs with Sansa

 **SANSA** : ‘Almost’ being the operative word, I hope.

 **JON** : Naturally.  
I mean, do you even see yourself in that dress?  
Hubba hubba

 **ROBB** : I hate all of you

 **GENDRY** : well at least they made use of somewhere other than the pantry

 **JON** : Actually…

 **SANSA** : Jon pushed me in there as soon as we walked in. We got here about ten minutes before any of you actually saw us.

 **ARYA** : wah  
wah  
waaaaaaaaahhh

**_ROBB left the chat_ **

**ARYA** : XD  
hilarious


End file.
